


Deal With It

by cazzy



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Angst, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, motivational sex???, serious injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-12 04:45:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5652925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cazzy/pseuds/cazzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yamamoto had never felt more helpless than in the moment the doctor had mentioned the world <i>crippled</i>  as he struggled to recover in the hospital after Shimon's attack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deal With It

**Author's Note:**

> Dug up some very old stuff I did for a KHR Kinkmeme and figured I'd throw it up here.

Takeshi’s least favorite part of recovering was the constant feeling of absolute uselessness. Well, scratch that – he hated everything about his slow, prolonged recovery equally, but at the current moment in time most of his enmity was focused on his lack of mobility.

When Takeshi had awoken for the first time, he was greeted by an empty hospital room. That in of itself was only slightly disappointing, as the lack of human contact allowed for him to organize his thoughts and remember what events happened to led up to him lying prone in a hospital bed. His recollection involved a lighthearted baseball game, followed by a passing comment, and finally, endless pain. And blood. There was a lot of blood.

At the time, he’d supposed he was grateful to be alive, but moreso than that all he truly felt was a slow-burning fury and an apprehension with his state of health. When he’d been somberly informed that the doctor feared he’d never walk again, Takeshi had simply nodded his head in numb acceptance.

As never walk again sunk into his consciousness, his mood took a turn for the worse. He was a swordsman – that was his skill, his pride, his way of supporting Tsuna as the Tenth. Gokudera, even without his bombs, held powerful intellect that was just as bitingly cruel and useful as any explosives. Reborn’s weapon of choice was a gun, and while the full utilization of his body was infinitely preferred, one did not need legs to fire a firearm. But swordsmanship required agile movement, and now that’d been taken away. Takeshi found that losing the usage of his legs hurt more than the initial pain of the wounds ever did.

Tsuna’s reaction to his injury was an odd mixture of anger and guilt. When he saw Takeshi struggling to walk, he seemed furious at the Shimon family, despite their parting after defeating Enma’s lot. Sometimes he’d apologize profusely, claiming he never meant for anyone to get hurt, but the days of an immature, repentant Tsuna were over. Now, he stood as a strong mafia leader, and although the Tenth still cared deeply for his friends, he understood the importance of not wasting all of his time and effort on one singular guardian.

Reborn was often silent, which made Takeshi slightly uneasy. He’d always known, deep down, that this whole mafia business wasn’t a game, but there was nothing that served to convince him as completely as almost dying. Reborn’s quiet gaze seemed to stare deep into his soul, and Takeshi was torn between asking Reborn what would happen to him now and apologizing for becoming a useless, dependent guardian.

Hibari looked at him with disdain now, when he deigned to even spare him a glance – the unheard “useless herbivore” always hung heavily in the air and served to remind Yamamoto that he no longer had the freedom of even showering on his own.

Ryohei seemed to exist only to be a motivator, and often made exclamations about how Takeshi was on the road to an “extreme recovery!” Sometimes, when he thought Takeshi wasn’t looking, though, his eyes took on an expression that could only be described as one of pity.

Chrome always had sympathy for him when she visited. She understood how it felt to be betrayed by your own body, unable to perform even the most simplest of tasks due to injury, and Takeshi never minded talking to her about how useless he felt lately.

Lambo, uncharacteristically, was generally solemn, and tried to appease him by bringing him various objects in hopes of cheering him up – the small table in his hospital room was covered with leaves, broken toy parts, and half-eaten cookies that were presented to him.

Gokudera, though… Gokudera was an anomaly. He’d been completely silent the first time they’d made eye contact after Takeshi had awoken, but something glowed deep and undecipherable in his eyes that caused a chill to run down the swordsman’s spine. His eyes held a contained sort of rage, and Takeshi wasn’t sure if it was anger toward him for being injured, or toward Mizuno for hurting him in the first place.

Lying in bed, Takeshi stared up at the ceiling of his room. He’d been moved from the hospital a few weeks ago as the slashes across his chest and legs had healed enough for him to be placed in a more familiar setting (and to dispel any lingering curiosity the doctors may have had about the origins of his injuries). He was almost completely sure that Reborn had paid them a large amount of money to forget about what they’d seen – the mafia doctors hadn’t been able to reach him in time, so Ryohei had taken him to a regular civilian hospital.

He couldn’t maneuver himself around without others there to support him, and the feeling of helplessness overwhelmed him. It reminded him of when he was younger, back when he’d only just befriended Tsuna and had broken his arm practicing baseball. At the time, baseball was his only real passion in life, and it seemed like killing himself was the only way to end the horrible inner turmoil he was experiencing after damaging his throwing arm. He remembered standing at the edge of the school building’s roof, looking down at the ground and reflecting on how it was surely going to be his cause of death. Most of his feelings had been silenced as he’d gripped the chain-link fence, and for a moment he’d almost felt content.

A rueful chuckle rumbled in his throat at the passing thought of how angry Hibari would have been to have to clean up his bloody remains off of Namimori’s concrete, but the humor quickly passed. He felt so much older now, and wondered if the days of being a carefree child were truly over. The mafia was ruthless and stopped for no one, least of all a swordsman caught up in immature fantasies.

Takeshi pushed himself into a sitting position restlessly. He still couldn’t walk without someone there to physically support him, and even that thought caused a small hurt to blossom in his chest that refused to go away. With every day that passed, his rate of improvement remained astonishingly low. As the weeks went by, accompanied by Ryohei’s positive words of healing, Takeshi paradoxically felt even emptier. Shamal had told him that now was the time he’d start showing improvement, but the callous reality appeared to be that, every time he tried to stand on his own, his legs shook terribly, sweat broke out, and pain jolted through every nerve in his body.

A sudden noise brought Takeshi’s sharp eyes to the outline of his darkened bedroom door. He could hear someone coming down the hall with even, purposeful strides, and his muscles tensed. Earlier in the day, Tsuna, Reborn, and Gokudera had come to visit, and for all their conversation they’d brought with them no warning of any future visitors. In addition, Takeshi’s father had already come in, helped him to the bathroom, and gone to bed, so the footfalls certainly weren’t his.

He couldn’t walk, that was true, but if almost dying had taught Takeshi anything, it was to always be wary and ready for combat. Despite his feelings of emptiness and helplessness, he knew that if anything else happened to him while he was still so wounded, Tsuna would likely blame himself, and that was unacceptable. He quietly opened the nightstand drawer to his right, slipping his hand in and grabbing the harsh metal dagger hidden there. As he heard the person traverse the hallway and stop just in front of his door, the brief thought flickered through his mind of how the Vongola had changed him – instead of a naïve, carefree boy, he was making the quick shift (if he hadn’t already) into a mature, disillusioned man.

The knob turned, and the door opened to reveal a dark silhouette framed by the square edges of the doorframe. The scent of cigarettes wafted throughout the room as the figured remained unmoving, and Takeshi relaxed almost instinctively before confusion overtook his features.

“Gokudera,” Takeshi said slowly, puzzled. “What are you doing here?”

“Shut up, idiot,” Gokudera responded easily, kicking the door shut behind him. He pulled out a carton of cigarettes, tapping it against the palm of his hand before removing a single cigarette. He shoved it in his mouth and fished around for a lighter within one of his pockets, cupping a hand to light up. Letting out a long drag, he said casually, “I’m tired of this bullshit ‘woe-is-me’ attitude. Something needs to change, because you’re acting like a selfish little bitch.”

Bewildered, and clearly not thinking straight, Takeshi rose to the bait. “What the hell?” he demanded, wishing more than anything that he could force Gokudera against a wall and question the cruelty of his words. “You think it’s okay to storm in here and tell me that I don’t have the right to be upset about the fact that I’m crippled?”

“Maybe you’re not as dumb as I thought,” Gokudera said, narrowing his eyes at Takeshi’s enraged form. “Don’t think I didn’t see that helpless look in your eyes when we were here earlier. It’s pathetic, and you’re scaring the Tenth.”

“I don’t mean to,” the swordsman gritted out. “It isn’t exactly easy to come to terms with the fact that I may never walk again.”

“But you will,” he said with a glare, challenging Takeshi to argue. The words, uttered with a quiet sort of confidence, gave him pause and cooled his irritation. Gokudera was the one who was particularly quick to anger, not Takeshi. He needed to keep a level-head to deal with the hot-blooded bomber, so he exhaled slowly to calm himself.

“Listen–“

“No,” Gokudera snarled, and in a flash he was forcing Takeshi’s shoulders back against the headboard of his bed. “You listen, you fucking idiot. Every day we come here, and you just lie in bed like this dejected little piece of shit, and it’s going to stop now. We fought to avenge you while the doctors saved your miserable life, and if you’re going to return the fucking favor by giving up, then you’re a coward that doesn’t even deserve the name of a Vongola guardian.”

Gokudera’s sudden proximity and physical force pushed the breath out of Takeshi’s lungs. The sneer marring the bomber’s face was within inches of his own startled features, and for a moment he couldn’t inhale.

“I’m trying,” Takeshi said heatedly, when he’d caught his breath, the wooden headboard cool against his back. “Sometimes it feels like I’m paralyzed and can’t feel anything and that I’ll never get better, I can’t even get around without relying on someone to half-carry me to the bathro—“

Gokudera swung a leg over his own, straddling the swordsman as a ringed hand grasped at his hip, and Takeshi bit back a startled noise as his trail of words cut off.

It would have been repetitive for Takeshi to yelp out the other's name, at that point, so instead he took in Gokudera's appearance with widened eyes and a petering-out temper. His hair was incredibly disheveled, as though he'd been running frantic hands through it for the past few hours, and the dark circles under his eyes spoke to more than just the typical tiredness that comes from being a mafia member, constantly on the alert for any plausible threat. Takeshi felt an almost irresistible urge to run the pads of his thumbs over those purple dips underneath those emerald eyes, but he managed to refrain, fingers just barely twitching.

"I'm afraid I don't understand what you're trying to do," he said instead, as a placeholder. Maybe a lifetime ago he would have laughed, a self-prodding joke at his own lack of intelligence, but Takeshi felt much too worn out to even fake the emotion.

"You," Gokudera growled, moving his hands up to grasp aggressively at Takeshi's shoulders, "are going to move past this. Where's the fucking idiot who's always grinning and laughing? Are you honestly going to tell me that piece of shit Shimon  _bastard_ murdered Takeshi Yamamoto, and you're all that's left?"

The words hit him harder than any of Gokudera's shoves had, and Takeshi was horrified to feel tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. "No," he said, vehemently. Losing this battle, this fight waged between his body and this uncomfortable hospital bed, would bring shame to his family, and it seemed the rough treatment the Guardian of Storm was delivering was more effective than anything else had been. "He's - I'm not dead, I'm  _here,_ Gokudera..."

"Yeah?" the silver-haired mafioso goaded, putting out his cigarette against the headboard of the bed and tossing it out of the way. "Could've fooled me. Poor little cripple, bet your face has fucking forgotten how to smile. Shit, can you even feel this?"

And Gokudera, with his knees imprisoning Takeshi's hips and legs, ground  _down._

Takeshi wasn't typically one for swearing, his father had always taught him to be more civil than crude, but feeling Gokudera grind down over his lap seemed to be a reasonable exception. "Oh,  _fuck,"_ he gasped. "Gokudera, you can't -"

"I can do whatever the hell I please," he responded with a sneer. "Unlike you, _can't_ even walk on your own." The words were cruel, but he moved a hand to push fingers through Takeshi's thick hair as he spoke, and with his final words, he crushed their lips together.

A high keen forced its way out of Takeshi's throat, and suddenly, this was all he ever needed again. Fuck swordsmanship, fuck walking, fuck everything if he could just keep this fiery man perched on top of him, kissing and nipping at his lips like it was the only time they could ever meet in this way. He felt himself getting hard - it was incredible that this was a concern that had never truly manifested itself, considering the spinal damage - and as fire shot through his veins, he placed his hands on Gokudera's hips as their kiss deepened. It was a struggle for dominance that neither man could truly win, and when Gokudera pulled away to gasp for breath, Takeshi felt a real, fully-fledged grin grace his features.

"You look like a goddamned idiot again," Gokudera said, the bite more in his words than his tone of voice. Takeshi could feel the mafioso's length pressing into his stomach, and he let out a soft noise.

"Goku- mm,  _Hayato,_ please, can I touch you?"

It wasn't the compromising position, nor the passionate kissing, that made the man on top of him blush, but rather the half-panted, desperate murmur of his name, and Takeshi felt his chest blossom with affection for the silver-haired bomber. He even missed his reply, too caught up in the rushing thump-thump of emotion surging through his body. For days that felt like weeks-months-years, all Takeshi had felt was the pathetic uselessness of an invalid, and he relished in the change, the familiarity of the almost-hysterical laughter bubbling and overflowing from deep in his chest.

Hayato must have thought he was a goddamn lunatic, but he couldn't seem to stop once he started, and with a frustrated groan he realized the baseball idiot wasn't going to be getting him off anytime soon.

As the desperate laughter shifted into something else, and tears began to earnestly fall, Takeshi found it surprising that Hayato didn't back off. He would've guessed, would have bet Ryohei all of his money, that the silver-haired bomber would rather spend an entire day with a maskless Bianchi than deal with an overflow of emotion, but maybe Takeshi had underestimated his dedication to the Vongola. Once they began, he couldn't even attempt to rein in his sobs. He rested his forehead on Hayato's shoulder, and cried, and when the tears had dried into Hayato's jacket and his sobs had faded into gentle hiccoughs, he looked up.

The mafioso wasn't looking at him, but the comforting arms wrapped around him and rubbing soothing patterns against his back spoke to Takeshi on a more intimate level. "I'm sorry," he said, an automatic response to the complete upheaval of his emotional stability.

"Che," Hayato responded. "Idiot, did it make you feel better?"

"It did," Takeshi started slowly, rubbing at his puffy, swollen eyes. "But what would really make me  _happy_ would be letting me fuck Hayato..."

Hayato looked at him disbelievingly as his pale skin flushed with a vivid blush. "Holy  _shit,_ you sly fucking  _bastard._ "

Takeshi's corresponding chuckle still seemed far too dark, too seductive to be anything even remotely close to the realm of happy-go-lucky, but the handsome mafioso still perched in his lap  _was_ rather tempting.

"I don't have lube, baseball idiot, I wasn't fucking planning this," he muttered, but he still sat back on his legs long enough to unbuckle and slide his pants off.

The swordsman was captivated by the pale flesh revealed under Hayato's clothing, and as his hard, flushed length was revealed, Takeshi couldn't help but touch. He wrapped one hand around the other's cock. "Hayato, you're so hard for me," he breathed. 

"S-shut up," he muttered. "I'm taking your pants off, too. You can do more than this when you stop being a fucking invalid," and with the cryptic words, Hayato pulled out Takeshi's own length. He lined them both up, flush against one another, spat into his hand, and started to rub both of them simultaneously.

It had been an excessively long time since Takeshi had even considered the notion of sex, and the visual of a ( _his,_ his mind growled possessively) pink-flushed, pale, silver-haired mafioso above him, stroking both of their cocks to completion, was almost too much to bear.

"I'm not going to last, Hayato," he huffed into his partner's shoulder, resisting the urge to bite down on the appealing flesh.

"Ah," Hayato responded, "Good, fucker, making me wait this  _goddamn_ long..."

Takeshi wrapped his hand around their lengths as well, and just a few moments of additional stimulation had them both moaning out their releases. They were both covered in thick ribbons of come, and Takeshi couldn't help but feel immensely pleased at this turn of events. Hayato immediately collapsed on top of him, and he could feel the mafioso's heart beating rapidly against his own fluttering pulse. Not wanting to risk the ire of the bomber by running come-saturated hands through his hair, Takeshi settled for nuzzling into the head of silver resting on his chest, inhaling the strong scent of cigarettes and gunpowder.

With Hayato comfortable in his arms, Takeshi felt like he could finally start to recover. He still couldn't get out of bed all on his own  _quite_ yet, but he knew for certain that he'd make a full recovery. Hayato would expect, and receive, nothing less.

 


End file.
